


They're Blue For You

by Kian



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky Saves Steve From Himself, Clint Comes Prepared, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Lack of Communication, M/M, Mild Homophobia On The Part of Shadowy Government Officials, Past Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Steve Needs a Hug, Tony Being Tony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 10:57:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1742309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kian/pseuds/Kian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bucky's memory starts returning, Steve is advised to keep his distance in order to protect Bucky from people who might think Steve's judgement is compromised if they knew how they used to be. Natasha picks up the slack in helping Bucky adjust, which Steve both appreciates and tortures himself over. Bucky is confused and worried, but doesn't know how to get through to Steve. Thankfully, one can always rely on Tony Stark to put his foot in his mouth in ways that eventually turn out for the best.</p><p>Or, the one where Steve hurts himself unnecessarily to protect Bucky from shadowy government types, gets super jealous of Natasha, Clint plays a deeply grumpy Cupid, and Bucky eventually puts an end to all this tomfoolery by bludgeoning all opposition with the brute force of his personality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They're Blue For You

**Author's Note:**

> So. This happened. Sorry? This is pretty hand-wavey in terms of timestamps and is purely self-indulgent when it comes to how it resolves. I wasn't going for art here, is what I'm saying. Still, who doesn't like a happy ending?
> 
> Title from "Unknown Brother" by The Black Keys, which -- when paired with La Roux's "Let Me Down Gently" -- inspired this weird tangential thread of a story. As always, unbeta-ed and so all issues should be reported to the front desk.

It was for his own protection, they advised him. Just for a little while. Until this whole thing calmed down a little bit.

They didn’t tell Bucky anything, because there wasn’t anything to tell. He hadn’t remembered what amounted to a detail of their lives from seventy years ago, and why should he? In amongst all the other things he’d been made to remember, all the other things he was made to forget and was fighting to get back, why should he remember those kinds of promises in a world that was entirely alien to the one they’d anticipated emerging into after the war?

Besides, he had Bucky back. Back in the world, back in his life and at his side. That was all Steve really needed anyway. That was the big piece, the most important part of who they were. Wasn’t it?

 

* * *

 

“I’m not sure about this, Buck.”

“You’re going out to get shot at, I’m going with you. I may be crazy, but I still know how to do my damn job.”

 

* * *

 

Hill was the one who had come to him with the news, the one who had broken the plan to him in her habitual crisp, business-like fashion. Gentle in the only way she knew how to be.

“You’ve got to keep a bit of distance, Cap. It’s barely safe for him to be here as it is. If it looks like your reasons for bringing him in and trying to rehabilitate him are more compromised than a PG rating warrants, it could be a real problem. For him, but also for you.”

He could read between her words. His say-so was already the thinnest thread of credibility in regards to Bucky’s potential for breaking his programming. For decades, Steve and Bucky’s relationship had been billed as familial; brothers by bond, if not by blood. Sure, there had been speculative chatter over the years that Steve and Bucky _might_ have had a romantic relationship, but the party line was and always had been: “Steve Rogers loved his best friend Bucky Barnes like a brother, and was planning to marry Peggy Carter as soon as the war was over.”

Shattering that impression was dangerous in the near term. Sentimentality and affection were fine, even understandable when Captain America had lost so many people in the service of his country. But love — unconditional and self-sacrificing — would see the Winter Soldier put down like a dog.

 

* * *

 

“They said Peggy was still around?”

“Yeah, Buck. She’s in a home, doing okay. Her memory comes and goes, though. Do you want to visit next time I go?”

“No. Wasn’t really ever her favorite person.”

“She liked you fine, Bucky.”

“In public, sure.”

 

* * *

 

Natasha volunteered to be there when Steve couldn’t. Volunteered to give Bucky the closeness he needed when eyebrows started to rise, when government observers started whispering behind hands.

The threat of discovery couldn’t keep Steve far, but it was just far enough that when the memories of furtive kisses resurfaced, they were memories that came with long red hair and not short blond.

And while Natasha had Clint, in whatever capacity that worked, the evidence of the Winter Soldier having emotional attachments, having broken programming for them before, undeniably went a long way to reassuring the observers.

Undeniable too, was the way Steve curled into his bed at night, around a cold ball of ache, trying to force himself to fall asleep before the pointless tears fought their way up to the surface.

 

* * *

 

“My little Natashenka, all grown up.”

“I was never _your_ anything, Barnes.”

“I wasn’t Barnes then.”

“No. No, you weren’t.”

 

* * *

 

It didn’t help that Natasha understood the version of Bucky they’d gotten back better than Steve could ever hope to. Understood the silences, the controlled paranoia, the subtle shifts of mood and energy, the darkly bitter humor.

Steve recognized Bucky in all of it, and Bucky was as staunchly loyal and affectionate with Steve as he had ever been...most of the time.

But Bucky got frustrated with things that Steve couldn’t anticipate, needed things that he couldn’t seem to find in Steve, however willing Steve was to provide.

He could find them in Natasha.

 

* * *

 

“No, not like that Steve. You can’t do that.”

“But he — “

“Not anymore.”

 

* * *

 

Steve’s ball of ache started to haunt him in daylight hours, in doorways to rooms he couldn’t bring himself to enter, at meals where he seemed to disappear, on the couch in Tony’s workshop watching muted news footage of public appearances he wasn’t allowed to attend.

Because he made Bucky unsafe. And he would do anything to protect Bucky.

 

* * *

 

“Where you been, punk? I haven’t seen your ugly mug in way too long.”

“Just a bit busy.”

“Not getting into trouble?”

“Nothing I can’t handle, anyway.”

“Have you had lunch yet? I was just about…”

“Had something earlier, sorry. Maybe next time?”

 

* * *

 

He hadn’t thought that he would have to revisit this kind of protection again, though. The kind where he stood calmly to one side and let the whole world fall in love with how well soft curves suited Bucky’s arms.

“From Russia With Love?” said the article in the Post, littered through with old documentation from the Red Room that had found its way onto the internet along with everything else on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s servers, as well as recent shots of Bucky and Natasha at public events and hearings, a few blurry shots from cell phone cameras of them about town.

Bucky vaulted over the back of the couch in the Tower’s living area and settled by Steve, peering over his shoulder at the paper.

“Aw, Stevie. Don’t read that stuff. It’ll rot your brain,” he said as he stole the paper away, balling it up and tossing it into the trashcan across the room.

 

* * *

 

They were trying to get him to move into the Tower. Everyone else lived there after it all, or at least crashed there semi-permanently.

He told them he wasn’t interested, that he liked his apartment across the bridge (freshly swept for bugs, small and cozy and full of memories he could occasionally trick himself into thinking were real for a moment or two at a time).

He didn’t tell them that he couldn’t do it because he didn’t trust himself to keep up the ruse.

He didn’t tell them that he couldn’t be there to see if all his hopes were really dead after all.

He didn’t tell them that he couldn’t watch eyes following bodies, couldn’t face the idea that he might round a corner at night when the nightmares came and see something no one could take back.

He didn’t tell them that he thought leaving behind his little sanctuary of loss might break his heart more finally than all the little micro-fractures that came from living with his ghosts.

He told them he liked his morning jogs, his neighborhood coffee shop, the grocer down the way, the little bit of privacy he’d carved out after living his whole life knee-to-elbow with other people.

He told them he liked the light in the afternoon, the lack of disembodied voices, the comfortable spare room he’d set up to do some sketching.

He didn’t mention he’d redone the extra bedroom months before, all his art materials and free-weights and extra bookshelves moved into the living area to make way for a bed and a side table and dresser. Blue toothbrush and a box of baking soda on the sink in the spare bathroom, still in their wrap. Blue sheets crisply clean, hospital corners, collecting a fine layer of dust over the top as they sat unused behind the closed door.

He didn’t tell them that he needed to still believe there was a reason to wait on a life that seemed more and more like it wasn’t ever supposed to be. That he still needed to believe in what home used to mean.

 

* * *

 

_KnockKnockKnock_

“Stevie? You there?”

_KnockKnockKnock_

“Steve?”

 

* * *

 

There were still arms thrown carelessly over shoulders. Still shared moments and jokes and wry glances.

They still shared everything, still worked best side by side, still fretted and fussed and teased. Still finished some sentences, still translated some thoughts, still found a lot of same things ridiculous or funny or odd.

But sometimes, it was Bruce who told Steve what was going on inside Bucky.

Sometimes, it was Tony who snarked back and forth, who laughed while Steve waited expectantly for a punchline he understood.

Sometimes, it was Sam whose shoulder got knocked, who got to fuss over Bucky’s bumps and bruises and bad moments.

Sometimes, it was Clint who finished a train of thought, who parsed through the jargon and references and translated it into English-for-the-old-guy.

Sometimes, it was Natasha who knew best, who stood close, who made it better.

Sometimes, Steve had never felt more alone in his life.

It was for the best, he told himself. It kept Bucky safe, made Bucky well, gave Bucky stability and friendship and a home to come back to.

So Steve would smile and wave and head home at the end of the night, pass the closed door on his way to bed, remind himself not to be selfish, and pretend that it was all enough.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, it’s getting kind of late.”

“You can crash here tonight. We’ll have pancakes in the morning or something. It’ll be fun, couch cushions on the floor ‘n everything. Like when we were kids.”

“Maybe next time.”

 

* * *

 

He couldn’t get out of the Stark Industries gala, not when it raised funds for children with terminal illnesses. Not when the kids would be there with their parents, spit-polished as guests of honor next to the Avengers. Not when Steve Rogers was the one they all wanted to meet, wanted to connect with.

“Imagine being in the middle of that,” Tony muttered under his breath, watching Bucky twirl Natasha on the dance floor, caught up in steps that were as controlled as they were inherently sensual.

Bucky had never looked so alive since he’d come back, never so delighted with everything around him.

Steve didn’t want to imagine. Not like that, anyway.

Across the floor, Natasha noticed Steve and Tony and grinned, tilting her head so Bucky knew to look as they turned. Bucky’s smile when he caught sight of Steve lit up the room and the wink stopped the heart dead in Steve’s chest. So did Natasha leaning up and whispering conspiratorially in Bucky’s ear, pressed close and held there by Bucky’s broad right hand, his left covered in a slick leather glove.

He ducked out early, after the kids but before the party was even close to winding down.

He looked at himself in the mirror over his bathroom sink and called himself a coward and a bastard and every other horrible name he could think of. He turned out the light before he could take any of it back.

 

* * *

 

“Why the fuck would you say that to him, Tony?”

“I thought it would be a bonding experience?”

“You better hope Barnes doesn’t figure out it was your fault.”

“Sleeping with both eyes open. Noted.”

“You are such a miserable shit, Stark.”

“I’m not the one still playing Fury’s game and rubbing salt in Captain America’s wounds.”

“...game?”

“Shit, Barn—”

 

* * *

 

There was a picture on the front page of the Times the next morning of Natasha kissing Bucky on the cheek as they left the gala, arm in arm and intimate. A fall of hair obscured Bucky’s expression, but Steve found he could imagine it easily. He'd seen it pointed at him often enough, once upon a time.

Steve left the coffee shop without buying a copy, without buying his habitual black with two sugars to sip while he read in the corner.

He went for another run and couldn’t make himself stop until the sun was setting and he had to take a cab to get home.

 

* * *

 

“What.”

“See now, that doesn’t even sound like a question.”

“Explain. Quickly. And I may leave you off the list of people I need to talk to about what constitutes ‘what is best’ when it comes to Steve Rogers.”

“Absolutely.”

 

* * *

 

Clint ambushed him the next morning, just outside his apartment complex.

“I just know you’re not planning on going on another run after yesterday,” he drawled.

Steve looked down the line of his body, at the tee and shorts, at the neat bows of the laces on his trainers.

“Because that would cross over from self-flagellation into suicidal, Cap. And I don’t want to be the one he’s angry at when he finds out.”

“It’s just a run,” Steve said.

“Nah, Cap. It’s _running_. And I, as the only person in this outfit who’s actually _been_ in a circus, speak from experience when I say the act’s worn a bit thin.”

“I don’t know —”

“Nope. No. Not happening, Steve. You’re coming with me down to your cute little coffee place now and we’re talking about this like people with feelings and stuff until we can’t stand it anymore, and then I’m going to go wash the emotions out of my hair while you sort your shit out.”

Steve eyed the exit routes, calculated how he could lose Clint in the side streets.

Clint pulled a small crossbow from the pocket of his hoodie.

“Tranq darts, Cap. Supposed to be able to drop a charging moose. Haven’t tried ‘em on super soldiers yet, though your boy has already tested my patience enough in the last twenty-four hours to justify the experiment. Trigger finger’s a bit twitchy is what I’m saying here. Haven’t shot anything in a while. Sort of looking for an excuse. _Any_ excuse. Any at all.”

“I don’t have my wallet,” he tried.

“Stark’s paying. Or somebody with deep pockets, anyway. Because I sure as hell am not paying for this experience.”

Steve sighed and lead the way to the coffee shop.

 

* * *

 

“Do we understand one another?”

“You can’t just threaten every — "

“See, that’s where you’re wrong. I have been threatening people on Steve’s behalf since the dawn of recorded time, so far as you people are concerned. Steve is the one thing I will _always_ be able to threaten people over. And since I obviously can’t trust anyone else with the care and keeping of Captain America, I will be doing as much threatening as it takes to get the point across that when it comes to me and Steve? You people don’t get to get in the middle of it. Ever. So I’m asking you again: do we understand one another?”

“Yes, Mister Barnes.”

“ _Sergeant_.”

“Yes, Sergeant Barnes.”

 

* * *

 

“Look,” Clint started, once their coffees were set down on the table between them. “They’re not sleeping with each other. I know this because I know Nat, as she is, better than anyone else. Maybe even better than she does, who knows? The point is, they’re affectionate, and a lifetime ago they had a thing in a really shitty place at a really shitty time when they were the only people who even remotely cared if the other one got killed.”

Clint took a sip, let that settle in.

“That’s not love, Steve. I mean, yeah, it is. It’s a kind of love, but it ain’t the kind either of them want, now they’re out. Nat and I? We’re complicated, but we’ve got what we want and we like the way it fits. You and Himself? You’re simple.”

“We’re really not,” Steve said. “He doesn’t remember and if I wanted to go back, it’d be putting him in harm’s way.”

“And that’s where you’re dead wrong, Cap. A year ago? Yeah, maybe having you two making cow eyes at each other would have made a lot of people nervous about his mental state and whether you were compromised, but now? Well.”

Clint put a newspaper on the table. Steve hadn’t even checked when they’d passed the stand.

“Romance of the Century,” proclaimed the front of the Times. Underneath was a still from somewhere on the Western Front, one he’d only seen when he’d come out of the ice. Some war journalist had snapped it, and in the early 70s it had been released by the photographer’s estate to the public domain.

There were Steve and Bucky, sitting side by side and pressed tight together to fit on the remains of a brick wall, back to the camera. Steve’s helmet sat at his side, and Bucky’s rifle was slung across his back. And there they were, heads turned in profile and grinning at each other like fools, noses just inches apart. Young and alive and giddy.

In love. So, so in love. _Simple_ , like Clint had said.

Steve felt his throat close up and the corners of his eyes pricked sharply with the threat of tears.

“All right, Barton. You’re in my seat,” said a familiar voice from behind them.

Clint stood up and clapped Steve’s shoulder as he left with his travel cup of coffee.

“Take care of him, Barnes.”

“Always,” Bucky said, sitting down in the vacated chair, blue eyes only for Steve.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, you dumb punk.”

“Bucky…”

“See, this is why I can’t leave you alone for five minutes. Did it back when, and you ended up being a US Army lab rat. Did it this time, and you let somebody convince you that I could ever forget you willingly. That I’d ever _want_ to.”

“It’s been a long time...and it wasn’t safe.”

“It was _never_ safe. And you were never scared of that before.”

“You seemed happier this way.”

“If you think I’m _ever_ happy to be away from you, then it might be they figured wrong about which one of us is crazy.”

“Jerk.”

“I love you, Steve Rogers. I knew that the minute I woke up for real. I knew that before I knew anything else. Now, are you done hogging all the stupid in the universe?”

“Somebody had to, with you not around.”

“I’m around now. Say it, Steve.”

“Buck — “

“Say it. Now.”

“I love you.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard. Now, when are you gonna take me home so I can act surprised about that bedroom I’m never gonna use? Wouldn’t mind getting a preview of the one I _will_ use, either.”

 

* * *

 

end


End file.
